


And I Feel Fine

by Fluffyllama (Llama)



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Injury, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Fluffyllama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron doesn't know what to do with himself, but somehow he ends up in the right place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Feel Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Brief torture, not graphic.

“I told you,” Ron said for the twentieth time at least. “I don’t know anything about the Ministry’s plans and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

The robed man crouching over him tutted. “That won’t do at all, I’m afraid, Mr Weasley.”

“Tough.” Ron braced himself. He knew what was coming.

“Crucio.”

And his throat, raw and burning from hours of this treatment, had to find something more to scream at the red hot fire that wracked his body. It was going to pull his nerves apart one by one, tear his muscles from the bone, shred his skin and liquefy what was left.

“Perhaps you will try a little harder next time, Mr. Weasley.”  
  
The man gestured to someone, but Ron couldn’t see who, not through the blood haze  
that covered his sight.

“Kill him and destroy this place. Leave nothing.”

Ron couldn’t breathe, and even if his bonds weren’t holding him so tightly the muscles in his arms and legs were still seared with pain. He wasn’t sure he could stand and fight even if he was freed.

“Ron!” The name was clearly audible, though there were more words obscured by a  
crash from above.

Fuck. That was Oliver, or maybe Harry, and they were probably too late, they were going to die here with him now, because Ron had failed. His wand was still upstairs, his legs barely capable of movement. He was going nowhere unless someone carried him.

“Get out!” The words tore at his throat, and still it was probably too hoarse to be  
heard outside the cellar. “Leave me!”

“Do it now.” The robed man snarled and pulled the door open… and collapsed in a shower of red sparks.

Ron saw bloody hair sprawled across the dirty cellar floor, and looked up to see  
Oliver holding his wand out towards an empty room.

“Ron! We have to get out, place is going to–”

The world crumbled into dust and splinters, and Ron woke up screaming.

***

“Ron, are you coming shopping with us this morning?”

Ron looked up, but nobody was really paying him any attention so he didn’t bother answering. He shovelled a forkful of eggs down but it tasted ashy and strange. Everything tasted like that at the moment, though they said it would wear off eventually.

“Of course he is.” Mrs Weasley passed him a plate and bustled off again. Ron didn’t know why women couldn’t sit still and just eat some breakfast instead of bloody hovering, but they all did it. Even Ginny was messing about with something while she wandered up and down with her toast.

Women were weird.

“Going to clean the pond out, weren’t you, Ron?” Charlie squeezed his shoulder, a little male solidarity he wasn’t ungrateful for. Still, it wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind.

What he’d had in mind was more sort of… nothing. He liked nothing.

“I thought I might call in and see Oliver,” Ron said.

He sipped his pumpkin juice. Ugh. Even that tasted off.

 _Really_ off. Shit. His stomach lurched, and his hand with it.

“Ron! Do be careful, dear. This was a clean tablecloth.” Mrs. Weasley dabbed at  
the cloth with her apron, feeling in her pocket for her wand.

Charlie beat her to it, and Ron watched the orange pool drain slowly, the stain fading from the cloth. Good as new. Almost.

“I’m sure Oliver will be pleased to see you, Ron,” Charlie said. “Harry says he’s been worried about you, always asking when you’re coming back.”

“I should think so,” Mrs Weasley said, pride in her voice. “He couldn’t have a better partner to work with. Kingsley says any of the Aurors would be pleased to work with Ron.”

“I know Mum, I know.” Charlie grinned at Ron. Mrs Weasley took any opportunity to remind anyone, family, friend or complete stranger, of Ron’s heroic injury in the line of duty. “But Oliver and Ron get on really well, so I think he’ll wait.”

Ron glared at him. He wished he’d never told Charlie about his stupid crush on Oliver. Ever since Charlie told him he reckoned he was in with a chance – only because he’d heard gossip about him and the Cannons’ beater Angus before he packed in Quidditch for his Auror training — Ron had harboured this ridiculous idea that something might actually happen between them. It was insane, and Ron wasn’t going to think about it.

Pumpkin juice gurgled in his stomach, and he concentrated on keeping his breakfast down. There was a sharp pain in his leg again and something was throbbing behind his left eye.

Miraculously, it was only after they’d given up and flooed without him that he  
threw up in the kitchen hearth.

***

He didn’t really have any plans when he was finally cleaned up and respectable enough to leave the house. He borrowed Charlie’s best shirt because everything respectable of his was in the wash, not because he hoped to bump into anyone, and he left his stick behind only because his leg really needed the exercise.

He didn’t head for South London for any particular reason, either, so it was complete coincidence when he ended up wandering into Kitchener Street, Wimbledon, where Oliver Wood’s flat was located.

And completely unexpected when he immediately panicked.

What the hell was he doing? He stared around at the unfamiliar row of shops, and Muggles in shorts casting suspicious glances in his direction. A car beeped its horn to hurry him off the road, and he lurched towards a grocery shop with a display of enormous plastic carrots and tomatoes in the window.

The place was filled with the competing scents of freshly cut flowers and overenthusiastic air-freshener, neither of which fully covered up the underlying aroma of slowly decomposing vegetable matter from the racks of the least tempting food Ron had ever seen.

It was probably a good thing for the state of the floor that there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up.

He made it to the street again and gulped in several lungfuls of cleaner air, waiting for the nausea to pass. He should go home, not hang around here hoping to see Oliver, who was better off without Ron anyway. Whoever they gave Oliver to work with when he went back probably wouldn’t get themselves captured and tortured quite so easily. Wouldn’t get himself lasting damage that would only completely heal if he was lucky.

Or maybe if he actually _tried_ to help it, he supposed.

His legs wobbled without his stick to help him walk, but the tremble in his hands had subsided by the time he passed a row of white townhouses just down the road. He just made it to the end before he groaned and lowered his head to rest his forehead on a garden wall.

“You pillock,” he ground out. “What the fuck are you doing?”

There was a chuckle from behind him.

“Do they usually answer back?”

Ron jumped, and pulled his head back so quickly that he banged it on the wall for real. The pain that was behind his left eye was now covering the whole front of his head.

“Ouch, I felt that. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle—Ron?”

Ron could see Oliver’s smile wobble unsteadily in front of his eyes, and opened  
his mouth to speak, but his leg picked the most inopportune moment to give way  
under him.

“Oh hell.” Oliver grabbed his arm and steadied him. “Come on, I’ll make you some  
tea.”

***

Which is how he ended up sitting in a kitchen with lime green and purple walls, cradling a mug proclaiming him the Sexiest Wizard Alive, and determinedly not talking about work or his absence from it with Oliver.

“Not mine,” Oliver said, nodding at the mug. “Belongs to my flatmate.”

“Right.”

“Probably shouldn’t have bought it for him. Makes things a bit awkward sometimes.”

“Right. Yes.”

“You know how it is.” He shrugged awkwardly.

“Right.” It occurred to Ron that he wasn’t really earning his keep in the conversation. “I mean, not really. How what is?”

“Exes.”

Ron stared. X? The letter of the alphabet? What was he—

Oh.

“Doesn’t bother you, does it?” Oliver sipped at his tea and didn’t look at Ron.

“Dunno. Is he likely to turn nasty if he finds me drinking out of his mug?”

“I shouldn’t think so.”

“No problem then.” He smiled unsteadily, and Oliver nodded.

“But to be sure, we could go into my room. Then we won’t have any awkward silences or anything when he comes in.” Oliver glanced up at the red and yellow striped clock on the wall as if his flatmate’s arrival was imminent.

“Um. Yeah, fine.”

He followed Oliver into the hall, mug still in hand, desperately wondering what the hell he was doing. Was this how he was supposed to behave? Maybe he should leave – Oliver didn’t really want him here, he was – oh god, he was such an immature, pathetic creature, picked up like a stray in the street who had nowhere else to go.

“Though, you know, actually, I should go—”

A key rattled in the door, and Oliver pulled him into the bedroom quickly. He stared into a pair of hazel eyes that were too close, and held his breath while footsteps passed quickly down the hallway outside.

“Going for a shower!” The voice was followed by the bathroom door slamming. A  
few seconds later the shower started up, off-key singing echoing down the hall.

“You don’t really have to go, do you?” Oliver was still too close, it was hard  
to think straight.

“Well—”

“Just one beer?”

Oliver was smiling faintly, but there was tension in the arm that rested too casually on the door jamb. Ron fixed his eyes on a strip of peeling paint and said yes.

It was strangely comfortable sprawling on the battered old sofa in this room that was – he had to admit – very Oliver in a peculiar way. Splinters of old Quidditch broom on the wall, pennants from major competitions he’d been in with Puddlemere, signed booklets and hastily-shoved aside piles of sweaty socks – all of it gave the place an aura of familiarity that seeped through him while they chatted about Puddlemere’s chances of promotion and the state of the reserve team without Oliver.

It was the familiar sights and smells of Gryffindor Tower and the Quidditch changing rooms, he decided by the time he’d finished his tea and was on his second beer. The boys’ dorm rooms, the showers and boys’ lockers. That uniquely masculine flavour of places that were untamed by the hand of a woman, and probably even house elves feared to tread for horror at the rampant testosterone and potentially lethal foot odour.

“How’s the head?” Oliver pushed his hair away from his forehead, leaning over to hand him a third beer with the other hand. “Can’t see a bump.”

Oliver’s hand was warm against his skin, and he was relaxed enough not to jump at the unexpected touch.

“Okay, I think.” He rested his head against the back of the sofa, feeling the alcohol trail slowly through his system. Oliver’s hand followed, stroking across his hair. He could feel the shorter ends spring back to his scalp as it passed. He didn’t say anything, just watched Oliver’s eyes follow his hand. It caressed the back of his head for a moment, then lifted up… and stroked again.

And again.

Maybe this was what he was here for. He remembered that hand, the one thing that helped him know he was still alive, down in that cellar. Amongst the rubble and splinters and pain, there had just been Oliver’s voice and his hand, a soft touch soothing his panic.

A voice, taking away the pain. What was it he’d said? The memory was buried in searing pain and streaks of blood, but it was there. Somewhere.

Ron tried to sink into it but all he could feel was his eyelids drooping. The stroking was so smooth, so relaxing.

“Good,” whispered Oliver. “Because I’d hate to think I was taking advantage of a  
concussed man.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Ron mumbled, but if there was more, the rest was lost when  
Oliver pressed his lips against his.

He wasn’t sure how something could feel both slow and comfortable and so exciting at the same time. It was nothing like kissing Hermione, which he still did sometimes, when they forgot they were having a cooling-off period so she could concentrate on her studies. It was kind of nice not wondering if he was going to be marked out of ten at the end of it. It was also nothing like that night when he’d had one too many butterbeers and made the mistake of kissing Harry in the Common Room when everyone else had gone to bed. Thankfully Harry had never mentioned it again. Maybe he didn’t remember?

Ron dropped the beer bottle, and reached out to pull Oliver closer. His fingers slipped through the close-cropped hair and stroked down his neck to tilt his head, moving in to kiss him more deeply.

That seemed to be all the encouragement Oliver needed. It was impossible that he could kiss like that and unfasten buttons at the same time, but the evidence was there in the bare skin that slid against Ron’s equally exposed chest, and the hand that was busy insinuating itself into his jeans. Ron wriggled, and managed to undo Oliver’s belt despite his hands trembling.

Christ, what was he doing? What if Oliver wanted him to—he gulped, feeling Oliver’s  
hands push his jeans and underwear down, and redoubled his efforts on Oliver’s clothing, finally getting him into a similar state of undress.

Hot. That was all he could think. A breeze from the open window brushed across his exposed skin, cooling him almost to a shiver, but Oliver’s skin was hot and prickly against him and he couldn’t get enough. He ground his hips against that heat, and Oliver pushed him down, sliding them along the back rest of the sofa until he was pinning Ron to the soft cushions.

He gasped at the hard cock poking him in the stomach, and shifted to rub his own against it. This was fine, this he knew how to do. He reached round to stroke Oliver’s backside, and grinned into his neck as their hips jerked together. A few thrusts, and a squeeze of his thighs, and he followed Oliver into a rushed, but no less welcome for it, release.

Oliver leaned up and took a swig of his discarded beer. Ron couldn’t quite find his voice, but his eyes must have communicated the plea, because Oliver grinned and took another mouthful, then leaned down to kiss him.

Beer kisses, thought Ron as the cold liquid trickled down his throat. Why did nobody ever give him those before? They should be compulsory.

“Stay?” Oliver kissed him again, still tasting of beer.

Ron just nodded, and closed his eyes.

***

Ron shifted, turning his head away from the chink of too-bright light slicing across the room. His face bumped into something warm and solid, and he moved closer, folding only half-consciously around the foreign object that seemed to be sharing his bed.

Mmm. Felt nice. He gave an experimental squeeze to the handful of nice, firm flesh his fingers had landed on. The object chuckled.

Cool, it made noises too. He liked it already. He walked his fingers down to a lightly-haired… thigh, yes. Wrong direction, though. He pressed the length of his body closer to the smooth heat that lay there and let him explore, and went in search of a morning problem to match the one he currently had trying to settle itself between this wonderful object’s buttocks.

He pressed his lips into a damp neck, and bit down as he curled his fingers around the cock that was already filling his hand nicely, and stroked.

Waking up should be like this every day.

“Mmmm, that’s good.”

The body – no, Oliver – there was no harm in admitting he knew who it was now he’d spoken - wriggled, pushing back against him. Unless he was imagining things, he was trying to get more of Ron’s cock between those smooth cheeks. Well, that was just fine by him. Ron angled his hips to rub more firmly, and – yes, that was definitely a pleasurable moan that echoed back at him.

Huh. Maybe he was doing the right thing, after all. Maybe he should try working on instinct every time, and stop thinking altogether.

Or maybe not.

“Here.” Oliver’s voice was breathless, and something cold slipped over Ron’s hip onto the mattress behind him.

“What?” He let go and rummaged around to retrieve it.

Ah.

“You’ll need that.” Oliver sounded amused. “Well, if you want to—”

“Yeah. Yeah, I want to.”

It wasn’t quite what he’d imagined. If he’d thought anything more might happen, it was the other way around, but he could work it out.

“You okay like this, or you want me to move?”

Ron considered, his fingers fumbling with the cap on the cold tube in his hand. He nudged the sheets off Oliver’s back with his foot, and tried to keep his voice steady.

“Think I can manage.”

He squeezed some gel onto his fingers and deliberated whether to put it on Oliver or himself. Or maybe he’d need to do both?

“Just do you,” Oliver said. Hell, he must have been staring at it for too long. Either that or Oliver had taken up mind-reading. Perhaps that wasn’t so far-fetched. “But take it slow, okay?”

“Right.” He smoothed gel over the hot skin of his erection, hoping the cold stuff wasn’t going to put it off. He slid back down into the sheets on his side, and tried to get back into the comfortable position he’d been in without wiping lubricant in all the wrong places. If he’d thought cocks had their inconvenient moments at other times, it was nothing compared to when they were covered in slippery stuff that was already leaving shiny trails wherever it bumped into anything.

His hand was trembling, and if it hadn’t been for Oliver leaning over more and reaching back to help, Ron wasn’t convinced he’d have been able to find the right spot. There was definitely a hollow there, was that – he groaned at the pressure on the end of his cock, and pushed anyway, praying for a clue, for it to just go in and not bounce back – and with a shift and a gasp he was there.

Oh, god, he was there. He held his breath, Oliver’s hand on his leg a reminder to take it slowly. He didn’t think he could go any faster anyway; this was unknown territory, and Oliver was so tight around him he was afraid he wasn’t going to last very long if he didn’t compose himself. His damaged thigh muscles were threatening to cramp already, with the effort of staying at the right angle and not being pushed right back out again.

“Okay?” he panted, and Oliver shifted minutely.

“Yeah. Just—”

And he pushed, and pushed; sank deeper, impossibly deep into a grip that he couldn’t hope to ever emulate with his hand, however much he squeezed; because hands didn’t work that way, couldn’t cover and fold around him so completely – not unless you had really big hands – was he babbling this aloud? He could never tell - he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and thrust – or maybe a really small—

“Ahhhh…”

Maybe that meant ‘Shut the fuck up, Ron’, or maybe it meant ‘Shut up and fuck me’, but either way the effect was the same. He pressed his lips against the writhing back, dragged his teeth along sharp shoulder blades, and thrust with abandon until they collapsed in a sticky, sweaty heap of spent flesh.

It wasn’t until he was almost home that he realised he’d had a dreamless night for the first time in weeks.

***

“So, Ron.” Charlie sat down at the breakfast table. “Did you see Oliver yesterday?”

Ron’s stomach gurgled, but a sip of pumpkin juice helped. It must be a different batch than yesterday’s because this one didn’t taste so bad. Less ashy.

“We had a chat, yeah.” Ron tried to play it cool, but he suspected the heat on his face gave him away. “And a few beers, so I, you know. Stayed over.”

Charlie reached over and pulled Ron’s collar down. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the red marks Oliver had left on him, but Ron pushed his hand away and looked meaningfully at the sink where Mrs Weasley was apparently chopping potatoes for lunch already.

“Later,” Charlie mouthed silently, and Ron made a rude gesture.

“If you’ve no plans, Ron—” Mrs Weasley started, but Ron was pretty sure he didn’t want to hear her suggestions.

“Actually,” he said, and gave Charlie a sideways glance. “I thought we could clean the pond out. I know Charlie would love to help me with it.”

Charlie groaned.

Mrs Weasley paused and looked worried. “Are you sure you’re up to it, dear? I don’t want you to put back your recovery.”

Ron shrugged. “I reckon it just needs a bit more exercise and I’ll be back at work in no time.”

Charlie snorted. “Don’t want to keep Oliver waiting too long, eh? Just in case he finds himself a new partner.”

 _A hand, he remembered that suddenly, stroking his head. Gritty, grimy, stinking of dust, but the best thing he’d ever felt._

“I’m not leaving you, Ron. I’d never do that.”

Agony to move his lips now, worse when he grated out real words. “I know.”

“Nah.” Ron scraped his plate clean and drained his glass. “I don’t think I need to worry about that.”


End file.
